


Silly, Impossible Things

by ahausonfire (thisiswherethefishlives)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Tripping Series - Ariel Bishop
Genre: (just not necessarily in that order), In which Dex goes pro, M/M, and then leaves, contracts feelings, pines like a fucking tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswherethefishlives/pseuds/ahausonfire
Summary: “C’mon, Wild Bill,” Richie drawls as they shuffle towards the ice, lips tilted into a smirk that Will can basicallyfeel,even from where he’s trailing behind. “Look alive--you only play your first game once.”Part of Will wants to chirp back at that, to make some kind of dry comment about water being wet and the sad state of Richie’s brain cells after one too many hits, but mostly he kind of just… agrees.Because going pro wasn’t supposed to be an option. Not for Will, at least, but then the offers had started coming in--for Chowder, for Nursey, and forWill--and somehow, Will had been the only one foolish enough to say yes--to put his senior year on hold in exchange for a golden ticket.And maybe Will should be more freaked out about it.Mostly, though, he just thinks that Nursey must be thrilled to have the room all to himself.





	Silly, Impossible Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DizzyRedhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyRedhead/gifts).



> Long story short, this silly little thing of a fic is dedicated to [DizzyRedhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyRedhead/pseuds/DizzyRedhead). 
> 
> Happy _(Ever So Slightly Early)_ Birthday.  <3 <3 <3

“C’mon, Wild Bill,” Richie drawls as they shuffle towards the ice, lips tilted into a smirk that Will can basically _feel,_ even from where he’s trailing behind. “Look alive--you only play your first game once.”

Part of Will wants to chirp back at that, to make some kind of dry comment about water being wet and the sad state of Richie’s brain cells after one too many hits, but mostly he kind of just… agrees.

Because going pro wasn’t supposed to be an option. Not for Will, at least, but then the offers had started coming in--for Chowder, for Nursey, and for _Will_ \--and somehow, Will had been the only one foolish enough to say yes--to put his senior year on hold in exchange for a golden ticket.

And maybe Will should be more freaked out about it. 

Mostly, though, he just thinks that Nursey must be thrilled to have the room all to himself.

“One foot in front of the other, rookie,” Cap says, and it’s only then that Will realizes that he’s fallen behind.

“Sorry, Cap,” he throws over his shoulder before straightening up and walking forward--towards the ice, and the noise, and the lights.

Will squares his shoulders and walks onto the ice, and yeah.

You only play your first game once.

+

“DEX!” Chowder squeals, and even though it comes through tinny, and even though the image is a little distorted, Skyping with Chowder is immediately everything Will didn’t realize he needed. “Oh my _Gosh_ , how do you feel?”

It’s-- _well_ , it’s not the first question that Will had expected.

Honestly, he had been expecting questions about the press, or what it was like to play with _Mac_ , and… well, even now, hours later with the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, the last thing Will wants to think about is himself.

Because, _yeah_. Will had done well. He did _good_. Two assists in his first game is nothing to sniff at, and it’s just the beginning. 

It’s just. 

If Will starts thinking about how he feels, he’s going to have to face the fact that every time his blades hit the ice, there’s always a feeling of loss. 

Because--

“Yo, C, I bought the pie! Did you get Poind-- _Oh_ , hey Dex.” Nursey barrels into the screen, hands filled with pie and forks, and it’s a miracle that he doesn’t drop anything. 

And, yeah. 

Dex misses him a lot. Too much, probably. 

It’s a problem.

“Hey, Nurse,” he says, careful to keep his tone light and teasing. “You still keeping my plant alive?”

“Bro, it was barely your plant when you lived here. Now that you’re gone, Anthony doesn’t even know your name.”

“Anthony is a fucking _plant_ , Nurse,” Will says, falling back into the comfortable rhythm of chirping like it hasn’t been months since they last saw each other.

_Months_. What the fuck.

“Look, Poindexter, plants have feelings too--like, we just watched this whole documentary on it last night, so it’s important that you realize just how hurtful your words are to Anthony.”

“Guys!” Chowder interjects before Will can get an obviously witty comeback in. “As much as I really, _really_ appreciate how important your plant co-parenting is, we have more important things to talk about!”

“Fuck yeah, we do,” Nursey says, leaning closer to the camera as he takes an obnoxiously large bite of pie, chewing determinedly as he points his fork at Will. “That assist in the second period was fucking _filthy_ , man. It was fucking _slick as Hell_.”

Even though he should be conditioned to Nursey’s particular brand of praise by now, Will can still feel the way his cheeks heat up--and it’s stupid, because Nursey’s speaking with his mouth full, and Will can _see_ the pieces of pie as they fly out with each consonant. Nursey is a fucking mess, but all he has to do is say one nice thing, and he gets Will blushing like some kind of virgin bride. 

“Ah, thanks, Nurse,” he says, head ducked down to better hide the way he’s gone all red. 

With the way that Chowder snorts, Will’s pretty sure that he’s being judged, but that’s okay. He’s used to it.

Chowder’s always been able to see straight through him.

“So, uh, what’s with the pie? Did you guys actually figure out how to work the oven, or--”

Just like that, they both start talking over each other, laughing as they explain that, _no_ , they didn’t miraculously learn how to bake. That, _yes_ , Bitty brough enough pie to feed a family for months (or just the SMH for a weekend). And that, of _course_ , everyone came to watch Will’s first game.

That, yeah, _obviously_ everyone was cheering Will on.

And Will listens as the chatter flits from one topic to the next--from the Wendigo’s win to Nursey’s latest poem, to the fact that Chowder’s planning on going ring shopping over the winter break--and it feels good to be here for this, even if it’s online. Because, yeah. 

There’s over a thousand miles between them, but right now, Will feels at home.

+

It turns out that playing professional hockey is just like playing for Samwell, except for all the ways that it’s not. 

There are still roadies, and practices, and the steady feel of ice beneath Will’s feet. 

There’s a certain level of ingrained comfort in the conditioning, and the hard work, and the feeling of being part of something bigger than himself. 

Those are the constants. 

It’s just everything else that comes with going pro that leaves Will unmoored.

Like the fact that he hasn’t seen his family or friends in months. Or that he still feels Nursey’s absence on the ice like a missing limb. That he finds himself looking for his friends in the strangest of places--as if they’d come to Wisconsin… 

As if they didn’t have lives of their own.

It leaves him aching, but only when he thinks about it. 

He tries not to.

He tries to focus on the things he _can_ change instead. Like the realization that he’ll never have to work another summer on the boats as long as he makes the right choices. Or the fact that he’s got enough money to warrant having an investment firm on hire--that he’s been given the opportunity to make sure that his _family_ won’t have to struggle anymore because suddenly there are more commas in Will’s bank account than he’s ever seen before in one place, and it leaves him panicked and pleased and hopeful in a way that he’s never really known.

It’s kind of stupidly amazing, and it would all be great, if it weren’t for his living situation.

Because, yeah, they’ve got him living with _Aleksandr motherfucking Ivanov_ for his first season like some kind of child. Which. It’s not a _bad_ thing, by any means, because Sasha has been really good to Will, and more often than not he’s out with Mac and Cap, dealing with captain shit or whatever. 

It just--it makes him feel less like he’s got a roommate and more like he’s got a babysitter. 

Like. 

He gets it, he just--

“Oh, fuck,” Will mutters under his breath, cursing heavily as the smell of burning bread finally registers with him. Because, yeah, apparently Sasha’s fucking oven is yet another thing that’s worlds away from Will’s life at Samwell. 

Because Betsy 2.0 was a good oven. A reliable oven. And, as shitty as she was, the first Betsy was at least a machine that Will could work with.

Sasha’s oven, on the other hand, is pretty much the devil. Like, if the Betsies were machines, ‘The Russian’ is a wood-burning, monolithic force of nature and it’s the fucking worst. Because, _apparently_ , even Sasha doesn’t really know how to use it. He had mumbled something about not being around enough to cook, about wanting to have an oven just like his dedushka, blah blah blah, a few dozen excited exclamations of ‘Da!’ when Will had tried following along, and whatever. He had stayed long enough to fix Will a sandwich before ducking out for yet another ‘captain meeting’. At this point, Will’s half convinced that he’s dating someone on the down-low and using the meetings as a cover, what with all the hickies he’s been sporting. 

It would probably be a thing, but it’s not really Will’s problem, so Will doesn’t focus on it. 

Not when he’s got more important things to worry about.

Like his toast.

_Burnt_.

Immolated. 

_Gone_.

“You burn toast again?” Sasha asks, and Will honest to god nearly jumps out of his skin, because what the fuck. For such a large dude, Sasha moves like a fucking cat. A large, Russian, ridiculous cat. “I tell you to use toaster, show you how--but _no_ \--Wild Bill know best, must show Russian oven who boss.”

It’s a long-standing debate between them, and many slices of bread have met their grisly end due to Will’s stubbornness, but there’s always been something inside of him that makes him keep pushing for competence or understanding or completion--of some unholy mixture of the three. It’s what made him so good on the boats, it’s what kept his grades stellar in school, and it’s what keeps him sharp and ready on the ice. Compared to all that, a little bit of burnt toast doesn’t mean a damn thing. 

“I’m gonna figure it out at some point, Sasha--see if I show you how to use it when I do.”

“Yes, scary rookie going to eat all my toast one day, but not today. If you make nice, I make omelettes.”

With a roll of the eyes, an epic huff, and both his arms thrown up, Will scoots away from the oven and settles on grabbing plates and silverware, careful to stay out of Sasha’s way as they navigate the same space. 

It’s nice. Nice enough where Will can admit to being grateful for his living situation, babysitter or not.

Because, it’s moments like that that make it worth it. 

Having this level of camaraderie in the kitchen, with the gentle chirping and repetitious little arguments… it all comes together in the early light of morning in such a way that nothing ever seems so bad. 

Not even the acrid scent of burnt toast. 

Not even the way Will’s still pining for someone he’s never had.

“You looking sad again,” Sasha says, which is ridiculous because he’s literally facing away from Will.

“You can’t even see my face right now!”

“I feel sad rookie face from here. Sit. Tell me,” he directs as he slides an omelette onto Will’s plate, deftly moving the pan back to the stove-top before pouring in more of the egg mixture. With his back turned away from Will, he sets to coaxing his own breakfast into existence. The set of his shoulders is relaxed, patient, and it’s clear that he’s waiting for Will to have some kind of big emotional breakthrough. 

Will takes a bite instead.

It’s delicious. 

It’s also nearly completely polished off by the time Sasha sits down to eat, but Will’s mother didn’t raise her sons to be rude in the face of kindness, so he makes quick work of cleaning up and grabbing a bottle of water before coming back to retake his seat. 

“Do I really have a sad face?” Will asks before taking a drink, eyes carefully averted from the way he’s certain that Sasha’s dad-gazing right now. He had enough of that to last a lifetime with Bitty, but at least Bitty’s dad-gazing and judgment came with pie. Sasha’s just comes with an extra side of judgment. And Protein. “I mean, I don’t really have anything to be sad over, right? I make a disgusting amount of money to play a game that I really like, and I’m doing pretty good at it for a rookie, right?”

“Yes, ‘ _for a rookie’_. You do better, you give Niki run for his money... and he already so sad.”

And, yeah. Will has to laugh at that. Because Niki _has_ been sad. Ridiculously sad. Which makes sense, considering the fact that he has a type--that type being unavailable women with overprotective partners. Considering the fact that he’s hot, famous, and rich, it’s pretty fucking ridiculous how often he strikes out. 

In the past month alone, Cap’s had to defuse no less than six altercations, and from what Will’s gathered, that’s actually pretty _good_ for Niki. 

“He liked the last girl so much,” Sasha says, a hint of a smile playing along his face even as he struggles to sound sympathetic. 

“Yeah, too bad her girlfriend didn’t feel the same way,” Will counters, and this is good. Because Will can do this. He can settle into the moment, and when Sasha laughs, it’s easy for Will to laugh along. Because chirping is easy. 

It’s easier still when it distracts from actual feelings.

“I still say you sad, though,” Sasha says, picking up the earlier thread like it was never put down to begin with, and _god_. Will should have known better than to think he could avoid this conversation. “Even best rookie with good contract can be sad.”

“I’m--” It would be easy for Will to brush this off. Easier still for him to lie, or to get up from the table. Sasha would let him, and they would move on, and everything would be fine. 

It’s just.

There’s a part of Will that knows better.

Because there are only so many times that you can excuse yourself from the table before people stop inviting you all together. He had learned that with Nursey, and that was one too many times already.

“I’ve been having a hard time missing my friend. We played defense together, and we lived together, and I’m just--”

“Nurse boy?” If Will’s face does something strange, Sasha doesn’t comment. “Da, you told me about him. The writer.”

And, yeah. If Will’s face went strange before, it’s bright fucking red now. Because apparently all this pining has turned into Will talking about Nursey enough that _Sasha_ knows who he is. Which-- yeah, basically potentially outing yourself to your mentor is one-hundred percent not the best way to keep your head down during your first year in the CHL.

But Sasha’s not looking at Will like he’s wrong. 

He’s just looking. Open and judgment free, and not for the first time, Will can barely process how lucky he was to be placed with Sasha.

It makes him brave.

Braver, at least.

“Yeah. _Nursey_. I didn’t think I’d miss him so much. There shouldn’t be _time_ to miss him so much, you know? And honestly, I know that he’s thrilled to have me out of his hair--we butt heads all the time, and we were always pushing at each other, and I shouldn’t be missing him like this, and it’s doesn’t ever stop. I miss him on the ice, and I miss him in the locker room, and I miss him everytime I close the door to my room. Because I close the door and he’s not there. And I didn’t _expect_ this.”

By the time he’s done, Will’s chest feels tight and wrong. It feels like he’s on the verge of tears, or laughter, or some other completely inappropriate knee-jerk reaction to having to actually voice his feelings. 

“Should tell,” Sasha says, like it’s easy, and Will wants to laugh. But he can’t, because Sasha is looking at him like he _knows_. Like he’s been there.

And as much as Will wants to, he can’t just brush that off.

“Yeah. Maybe I will,” he says, shooting Sasha a shaky smile before excusing himself from the table.

Because it’s not lying if he says maybe.

+

Sasha doesn’t push things after their little heart-to-heart, which is honestly more than Will could have hoped for. 

Sure, the knowing glances that he shoots at Will are definitely there, but it’s better than anything Will would have faced in Samwell. 

_Yeah_. 

That would have been a shitshow. Chowder pushing for Will to confess, Bitty pushing Will to stop moping, and Whiskey pushing Will to hook up with someone else--to get over Will in the most efficient way possible. 

Compared to that, the knowing glances are doable. 

Honestly, they’re fucking _great_ , because it lets Will focus on playing good hockey. And when he’s not playing good hockey, it lets him push everything else aside. Because if there’s one thing that William Poindexter is good at, it’s avoidance.

+

The first time that Nursey shoots him a text that’s separate from the SMH group chat, Will’s really not expecting it.

It’s simple.

Just a black and white shot of Anthony, and it shouldn’t look sad--because it’s a plant--but somehow Nursey’s managed to make Anthony look _depressed_.

It’s wrong.

It’s also got Will calling him, because what the fuck.

“Sup, Poindexter,” Nursey drawls, and it’s like a punch to the chest, because he sounds--

Well, he sounds like _Nursey_.

“Why does my son look so sad, Nurse? What have you been doing to him?”

“Oh ho _ho_! I take time out of my very busy day to send you an update on _our_ son, and you don’t even have the common decency to say ‘thank you’. Aren’t they supposed to go over media training when you go pro? Don’t they realize that you’re ‘Wild Bill’ Poindexter?”

“Shutup,” Will groans, even as he smiles into the phone. “I didn’t get to fucking _pick_ , Nurse, and you know it. It’s not like I waltzed into camp and asked them to give me the most ridiculous name on the whole damn team.”

“Pfft, whatever. I bet you love it. _Wild Bill Poindexter: Rookie of the Year_ kind of has a ring to it, and it’s kind of hot when you’re beating the shit out of people.”

If Will chokes, that’s his own damn business. 

“I don’t beat the shit of out people, Nurse!”

“Yeah, but the nickname would be a lot hotter if you _did_. Get on that, stat. You could be dripping in puck bunnies if you just worked a little on your image.”

Any chirp that Will could have fired back promptly loses its steam at the idea of Nursey _wanting_ Will to be dripping in other people. It’s exactly what a good bro would want, probably, but as it is, it just fucking hurts. 

So Will deal with it the only way he knows how.

“Whatever. Tell me more about my son. I’m worried that you’re sending me emo portraits of him. Does he need a therapist?”

“William, I _honestly_ don’t know what to do! Ever since you left he’s been _spiralling_.”

“You’ll figure it out, Nurse. There’s no one else I would have left him with but you.” 

The second that the words are out of his mouth, Will wants to punch himself, because they feel like a confession. They feel like more than a tired joke about their joint-custody plant, and for a second he’s worried that Nursey can feel it too. Because there’s a pause. The kind of pause that leads to no good, and if he could, Will would take the words back.

“He misses you,” Nursey says, pulling Will out of his thoughts, and for a minute he can pretend that Nursey’s not talking about a plant.

“Yeah.” Will replies, chest tight and his hopes higher than they should be. “I miss him too.”

+

Will doesn’t really stop missing Nursey, but over time, he gets a little more used to it. To the rhythm of missing him and how it syncs up with the rest of Will’s life.

There’s practice, and the way that he misses Nursey’s presence on the ice--the way that they played like extensions of each other, even before they got along.

There’s roadies and events and media training (because, yeah, Nursey wasn’t wrong about that). There are euphoric highs when they earn a win, and grudging lows when they lose, and in the middle of everything is the way that Nursey just isn’t there.

Because a part of Will--the hopeless, pining, ridiculous part of him--still feels like Nursey _should_ be with him. It’s the part of him that still wishes that this had been Nursey’s dream, just as much as it had been Will’s out. 

But it wasn’t for Nursey.

And it was for Will.

And Will’s getting used to missing Nursey. He’s getting better at it. 

Because just like with everything else, practice makes perfect. 

+

“So, Anthony and I are in agreement on this, so I don’t want to hear that you’re not on board.” 

Nursey’s voice is warm and soft in Will’s ear, and Will still can’t believe that he gets this. That the phonecalls and the texts and the Skype calls didn’t dry up like they did with pretty much everyone else. 

Two years ago, it might have been weird to wake up to Nursey’s texts only to fall asleep to his voice, but--

Well, it’s not two years ago anymore, and apparently their brief stint of living together made these points of contact a part of their routine. Everyone knows that hockey players _love_ a good routine. 

“You fall asleep on me, Poindexter?” Nursey chirps, as if Will would ever fall asleep on him.

(Will has totally fallen asleep on him.)

“Nah, still awake,” Will says before letting lose an enormous yawn. “What’s up with you and our kid?”

“Well, we were just thinking that you should get us a hat trick tomorrow. No pressure, obviously, except that it would really mean a lot to Anthony.”

“Oh. _Right_. Anthony really wants that hat trick, huh? He’s pretty damn demanding for a plant ever since I left. You must be a soft touch, Nurse.”

Nursey laughs at that, a soft, sleepy little thing that has Will feeling warm all over, and just like that he’s agreeing. And it’s silly, and it’s impossible, but Nursey’s always had a way of making even the most silly, impossible things feel real.

+

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” Singer yells, loud and gleeful and ridiculous, and he’s slamming into Will, and it’s amazing. Everything is amazing. And silly. And _impossible_.

Will can feel the excitement in the rink--can feel it settle beneath his skin and into his bones--and he’s _alive_ as hat after hat falls onto the ice. And holy shit, this shouldn’t have happened. Honestly, he shouldn’t be this excited--extra ice time due to injuries isn’t anything to be proud of--but then Sasha’s pointing at him from across the ice, and the pride that Will’s been fighting comes rushing to the surface. 

Because he did that.

He fucking _did_ that.

+

And if he did that for Nursey, well.

Anthony _did_ ask.

+

It takes time to sweep up all the hats, and then they’ve got a game to win, and the night just keeps on going. 

For the first time, the press actually wants to talk to him, and it’s bizarre. The lights and the cameras and the way that he can feel his sweat drying to a film across his skin, and all he wants to do is play hockey. The rest of it is bullshit. Necessary bullshit, but bullshit nonetheless, so by the time they’re all done with him, he’s exhausted and grimey and ready to go the fuck home.

“You can’t just go _home_ , rook,” Mac says as he pushes Will towards the showers. “Go get clean and put your goddamn game face on. Drinks are on Cap!”

If Cap grumbles something at that, Will’s too focused on actually getting into the showers to care, letting the water pressure work the sweat from his body before bothering to put in any effort. Because suddenly he’s feeling the day, and he’s tired. He’s tired, and all he really wants is to crawl into bed to the tone of Nursey’s voice. 

By the time he’s suitably clean, Will’s fingers have gone pruney and the team’s trickled out after obtaining his half-hearted promises to meet at the bar, and Will’s trapped in how surreal the whole night is. It’s probably why when he opens the locker room door and walks straight into Nursey, he doesn’t question it.

Because it’s just another surreal moment in a string of surreal moments. 

“You are _ridiculous_ ,” Nursey says, like the ridiculous person in this moment isn’t him for just _being_ here. “A plant asks you for a hatty and you fucking _do it_.”

“I mean. You asked for it too,” Will starts, but he’s cut off from rambling further when Nursey sweeps him into a crushing hug. 

And, _oh_.

Will had forgotten how good it felt to be in Nursey’s arms. To be in his space, breathing the same air and feeding off each other’s energy, and it’s good. It’s so fucking good. 

It’s also extremely fucking surreal.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Will asks into the crook of Nursey’s neck, and if he were a better person he’d probably feel worse about essentially rubbing his damp hair into Nursey’s everything, but--it’s whatever. Will’s never been a particularly good person, and he’s not about to apologize. “I thought you had a presentation today. Shit, I thought you were in _Samwell_.”

“I mean, I did, and I _was_ , but it turns out that Professor Mascia is not only super chill, but _also_ a huge Wendigos fan? She’s letting me do it next week as long as you sign something for her.” Nursey shrugs at that, and Will can feel it in the way his chin goes up with Nursey’s shoulders, and if he had his way he’d never let go. 

Except.

“Wait, seriously, how are you here right now?”

“I mean,” Nursey pauses as he pulls away, just far enough so they can _see_ each other, and Will is a goner because the only thing that registers is that Nursey has a _good_ face, “I couldn’t really say no when Aleksandr Ivanov texted me, right? Like, I know you’re a big deal now, but you can’t expect me to turn down free tickets and transportation, right?”

“What.” Will says, and it’s not a question. It’s a fucking statement, because seriously, what.

“Uh, yeah. He said something about a happy rookie initiative and then sent me the details for the flight.” 

Will wants to question it all further, but then there are fingers combing through Will’s hair--still damp--pushing it up from his forehead and everything kind of flies out of Will’s brain. 

“Shitty has been so proud of you for this,” Nursey says, as easy as anything as he plays with Will’s hair. “He keeps messaging me about the status of your ‘sweet, sweet carroty flow’--it’s kind of _ridiculous_ how invested he is in your fucking hair.”

“Um,” Will says, and yeah. He’s not really winning the whole conversation game right now… but the way that Nursey’s smiling at him--real, and here, and shockingly tender--Will finds that he can’t be bothered.

+

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out to meet the team?” Will asks, even though the last thing he wants to do is share Nursey with everyone else. The idea of going out for drinks and dealing with everyone jostling for Nursey’s attention makes Will’s skin crawl, but Nursey’s _here_ , and the least Will can do is show him a good time. 

“I _mean_ ,” Nursey drawls from where he’s taking in the pictures that Will’s hung up, and _crap_. This is a questionable situation at best, because Nursey’s in most of them, and that’s probably not a bro thing. “I’d rather just chill with you for now. It was a long-ass flight, and I’m here for the weekend, so there’s time for you to show me off later.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Will says. It’s only when Nursey makes a questioning noise that he finishes the thought. “I can’t believe that Sasha just flew you in.”

“Yeah. _So_. About that. I’m pretty sure that he thinks we’re dating?”

And just like that, it’s like the record’s skipped, because what the fuck.

“What the fuck?” Will asks, because seriously, how is this life? “Like… English _is_ his second language, maybe he meant something else?”

“Yeah, no. When I told him I got the email confirmation for the tickets, he basically welcomed me to the family. Like, I’ve basically got a seat reserved in the WAGs section, and _also_ , did you realize that half your team was dating, or are you just that oblivious?” When Will fails to answer--because what the fuck--Nursey rolls his eyes before digging through his duffle. “Okay, you _didn’t_ know. You are somehow the most oblivious person in the world, and that’s okay, because _apparently_ I’m into it.”

There are… so many things that Will could say in response to that, but then Nursey’s crossing the room with purposeful strides, and he’s shoving something in Will’s hands, and--

“This is a twig.”

“That is your _grandson_ , you asshole, also known as Anthony Junior.”

“So it’s a twig?” Will tries again, trying his damndest to keep from smiling. From the gentle huff that Nursey sends his way, he’s pretty sure that he’s failing.

“It’s a clipping, you douchebag. I just thought that, you know. I’ve got Anthony, and now you’ve got AJ, and… now you can send _me_ some updates.”

“Nurse,” Will starts before carefully placing AJ on his dresser, “you already get all the updates I have to give.”

“Yeah, see. That’s probably why your buddy thinks we’re dating.”

Will opens his mouth to reply, but there’s nothing. No explanation for this, and no hope in recovering. Because there’s not really a way to brosplain this under the rug. 

“I mean,” Nursey continues, as if Will’s silence isn’t the most suspect thing in the world, “ _I’ve_ kind of felt like we’ve been dating, so I get it. Like, we co-parent a plant, and you’re the first person I think about in the morning and the last person I talk to at night, and that’s pretty fucking gay, right?”

Will tries to reply, but the only thing that comes out is a little blip of a noise that’s scarily reminiscent of a moth hitting a lit bulb. What the fuck.

“So, yeah. Maybe this wasn’t the best way to drop all that on you, but I’m gonna need you to reboot so that you can say something that isn’t a noise.”

It’s a fair request, and Will wants to grant it. He _wants_ to more than almost anything, but Will’s throat feels hoarse and dry under Nursey’s attention, and all he can focus on is the repeating mantra that they can have this. That this is a thing to be had. 

It’s kind of a revelation. 

“Fuck,” he says. 

And honestly, it really goes to show how much Nursey must like him, because Nursey just _smiles_ in return like he gets it.

Like he understands. 

“I’m so, _so_ into you, Nurse,” Will finally manages, and holy shit. If Nursey was smiling before, he’s radiant now. 

He’s pretty much the most beautiful person that Will’s ever seen, and they _get this_.

“Well, yeah,” Nursey says, crossing the room until they’re face to face, and Will can feel the shift in proximity like a punch to the stomach. “You’ve got excellent taste, _Wild Bill_.”

“How _dare_ you. Don’t you _ever_ call me that a--” 

And sure, it would have been nice to finish that sentence, but then Nursey’s lips are on his (and yeah, Will is one-hundred percent going to have to talk to Nursey about that, because kissing mid-sentence is not about to be a thing)... and Will is a goner

He’s _done_.

Because Nursey kisses like it’s the answer to anything and everything, and if this is their first kiss… well, it bodes well for the future.

Because this silly, impossible thing is a thing that they can have.

+

And they can take their time.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely and wonderful [jamesiee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesiee)! Seriously, thank you for being an excellent and enthusiastic sounding board throughout this whole process. <3


End file.
